


To learn how to be human

by nogohello



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically what if Reginald werent bad but just a confused alien kinda, Character Study, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kid Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Reginald Hargreeves, Parenthood, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sibling Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogohello/pseuds/nogohello
Summary: What if Reginald Hargreeves didn't end up being as bad of a father?What if over time he learned how to be human, how to love?________________A fic in which Reginald is not a bad person, but rather someone lacking emotional intelligence and knowledge on kids due to his outer-space roots.
Relationships: Grace Hargreeves & Reginald Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves & Dr. Pogo, Reginald Hargreeves & The Hargreeves, The Hargreeves Family
Comments: 98
Kudos: 266





	1. having aquired small creatures, he has no clue how to treat them

**Author's Note:**

> This is me creating a story in which instead of being a grumpy, abusive man, Reginald is more of an empathy-lacking, misunderstanding alien. It's about him learning that the kids need love.
> 
> (I'm re-imagining the plot, so this ain't a fic trying to justify his actions in the show. I also don't think this will be too plot-driven; more of a character-focused thing)

Sir Reginald Hargreeves is not a man of feelings and emotional concepts. Not at all.

One could even argue he is not a man at all, having come to earth from another distant planet—a home now unattainable, but speckles of dust and light caused by irreversible destruction, floating through space light-years away.

To humans, he is what they call an alien. An extraterrestrial.

That is, to the ones who know of his identity: a percentage approaching zero.

By most he’s seen as _Sir Reginald Hargreeves_ ; eccentric billionaire, renowned researcher and explorer, as well as a successful business man. Little of his private life and personal agenda is known to the public eye and for many years the media stayed content with such: a mystery of a person bound to stay in secretive shadows, only to emerge with a new project or a scientific breakthrough from time to time for others to gasp and gape at.

Recently this has changed, though. The past months he has had to turn down interview after interview—prying, greedy hands constantly grabbing for information from him. Anonymous, fake sources have been lashing out left and right, creating the necessity for the man to release a statement here and there to keep endless, factually wrong headlines concerning him from being published.

The reason?

Reginald Hargreeves has adopted seven children.

Well, one would think this is not the most exciting, groundbreaking news. Sure, it is unlike him and his previously established picture, and maybe a bit odd to think of adopting several babies at the same time whilst having to act as a single-parent, but it really isn’t that interesting compared to other aspects of Reginald’s life, on the surface.

The thing is that those seven infants are anything but ordinary. Adopting them is not equal to taking in other, regular children. No, not even their process of birth makes them seem on the same level as any kid.

All of them were born as part of an international phenomenon: delivered by women, who had not been pregnant prior, at the exact same time all over the world.

_1 st of October 1989, twelfth hour of the day._

There is no logical explanation to the existence of the children, of course creating quite the uproar within the people—curious, confused and suspicious, to an extent.

And Reginald Hargreeves set out and adopted seven of those ‘ _miracle-babies’_ , all from different countries over planet earth. How exactly he got his hands on them, which agreements he made with the affected mothers and why he decided to take them under his wings remains unknown.

The man himself is very certain of his reasoning, keeping it hidden under covers.

His plans are grand and his determination is great.

Sir Reginald Hargreeves, therefore, is not a man of feelings but a man of ideas. A man of discipline and hard work. A man who does not dwell when it comes to achieving his goal.

That is who he is and who he will always be.

(Or so he thinks.)

* * *

His plan is not to be a father.

That’s definitely not his intention, not what they need and quite surely not what he longs for.

Reginald observes as Pogo waddles down the hallway with the newest nanny, explaining to her what her working-schedule includes as well as the behavior that is expected of her at all times.

She— _the man has not caught her name_ —is here to replace a previously fired young lady— _he did not bother to memorize her name either, only ever remembering which Number (or well, child) he assigned her to._ The first woman he decided to dismiss for slacking off and being much too soft to the child she took care of, which is something out of place and futile in the environment the seven need to grow up and into the people they need to be.

Watching the newer nanny firmly nod at the tasks and guidelines Pogo gives her, he deems her to be a much better fit. Her aura is strict, cold. Something about her is just faceless; a bundle of four limbs and a brain to carry through with the job. No smiles, no baby-talk, no asking for stuffed animals and other toys to be added to the nursery.

It’s perfect, Reginald believes.

He’s the head of an Academy, after all. Not a kindergarten.

Pogo is walking back towards him, having left all the women to work. The faint sound of a child’s cry grates his ears, but Reginald decides to ignore it for now, as long as it lasts no more but a few minutes.

“Pogo, I assume everything’s working out alright.”

The advanced chimpanzee nods, fumbling a bit with his glasses. “I think Mrs Millson will fit splendidly to assist in working with the children and taking care of Number Six. She is, at the moment, familiarizing herself with him.”

Reginald hums in thought, adjusting his monocle. “Very well. I expect her to treat the baby as she’s supposed to. Just because to her it currently looks and behaves as any normal infant does not mean it is one.”

Pogo clears his throat, shifting a bit on his feet. Reginald hasn’t been able to train the ticks he sometimes showcases out of him—perhaps a side effect of being akin to a human. “Sir, are you sure you want to keep the children numbered? The nannies would surely find it easier to refer to them and differentiate between them through names, and one day they might be in need of one. It is seen as a tad bit… inhuman to not possess a name, if I may state so.”

Reginald frowns, huffing at the notion. “What are names but titles, words, sounds? The children _are_ titled; _One to Seven_ —easy as that. They won’t be in need of names to save the world and they won’t be in need of names inside these walls; surely, I will not waste time and effort to give them something as insignificant and un-telling as names. What do I care for human quirks and norms in this case? They are super-powered beings.”

“They are, Sir”, Pogo agrees quietly, then adding: “But they are also human beings, are they not?”

What a weird question.

Reginald shakes his head, his jaw tense. “There will be no further comment on this, I demand. I will be getting to work in my study, undisturbed, and when it’s time I’ll come back for the children’s daily examinations. In the meantime, you shall assure things go smoothly with the nannies; as always, I expect a thorough report this evening.”

The chimpanzee bows slightly, then leaving to do as he was told.

Creasing his forehead Reginald walks off, too.

Human minds are too sentimental for their own good, he supposes. What worth is there behind a name?

* * *

Reginald checks on his camera system a last time, shutting the lights in his office.

The nannies have all left for the night, though they will only be gone for a few hours, returning before the sun’s finished rising.

_No anomalies to be seen on the screens,_ the man finds. Pogo has already reverted to his private chambers and the babies are sleeping, as they are supposed to.

Still, Reginald decides to go see for himself if everything in the nursery was left up to his standards.

He maneuvers through the mansion in the dark (it rarely comes up, but his vision is a lot better than that of the homo sapiens, enabling him to walk without lights) and quietly slips into the children’s room in the left wing of the building, opposite of his main living area.

Inside, the seven cribs are lined up nicely, painting a flawless scene of symmetry. A blue hue floods in from the gothic-styled windows.

It is silent, to Reginald’s liking. And the small creatures, some snoring softly, some writhing slightly in their sheets, all seem clean and in good condition. Kept in order—meaning: no reason to fire another nanny (yet.)

The man turns on his heel, motions without sound, as one of the children stirs from its position. For a moment, Reginald keeps on facing the door, anticipating. But nothing happens.

He glances back. The fifth kid has sat up in its crib, head heavy and body wiggling helplessly without support. Its eyes meet Reginald’s, big and dark and sleepy, as its eyelids drop down bit by bit.

Number Five, Hargreeves recalls. One of the few to have not shown any signs of powers yet.

All of them are still poorly developed, he has gathered. But Number One has already used abnormal strength for a fairly young human, already above average when even counting in adults, and Number Two has proven himself to be able to curve the trajectory of objects—being able to change the direction a ball flies if thrown by himself (which he is still lousy at doing with knobby fists) and also if thrown at him—whilst Number Six has, only during one, single occasion, released a tentacle out of a currently tiny dimensional opening in his stomach. At last, the seventh child, a girl, is able to shatter windows and bend metal when screaming and wailing; a force which worries her nanny, but hasn’t been able to hurt her so far.

The rest has yet to prove to Reginald that they are worth his time. Such as the child now looking up at him.

Its upper body wobbles as it lifts up its hands and makes a small, babbling sound.

Nothing noteworthy, as ever so often.

“ _Go back to sleep_ ”, Reginald mutters under his breath, knowing fully well that humans this age are for some unnecessary reason incapable of comprehending and communicating normally.

The kid holds itself up shortly and then falls back on its bum, rolling over in its crib with awkward movement. On its face there is a twisted expression, a pout of the lower lip and a small furrow of its eyebrows.

Reginald dearly hopes it won’t cry.

Once again, he turns to the door, deciding to ignore the event and clasping the handle with a gloved palm. He does not wait, does not think anything will happen.

(Of course, that is always when things happen.)

There’s a swoosh; a crackling noise of electricity accompanied by what could be compared to the sound of a strong, short whistle of a breeze. A bright light illuminates the room for a split second and the fading smell of ozone reaches Reginald’s nostrils.

He looks back at the cribs immediately. They are still intact and fine—except there; the fifth is now empty.

The man curiously gazes across the nursery, narrowing his eyes, as something tugs at his pants.

Looking down at his feet he sees that Number Five has latched onto his left leg, tightening his chubby fists around the fabric of his clothing. Reginald assumes he must’ve warped himself down there to the ground.

_Fascinating_.

Maybe there is something worth his while about this one after all.

Not a second after, the man’s mind rotates around ways to examine and study the child’s powers. Quite the potential, he’d suppose. Remarkable. _Teleportation? Space-travelling? Or was it more of a trick of speed?—though he’d doubt that._

He’ll have to jot it down in his journal this hour still and prepare to observe the infant more closely tomorrow.

His eyes wander down to the small being again, as it’s once more holding eye-contact with him quite steadily.

“I would hope you can go back yourself, Number Five” Reginald keeps his voice low.

The baby, as perhaps should be expected, only stares up at him, as the pea-brained, shallow-minded creature most children are.

Reginald tries again, pointing his chin to the crib. “Back. _Now_.”

It lets its head drop forward a bit, leaning onto the man.

“Don’t fall asleep on me. You’re not a monkey, grabbing onto my leg. Go back to your crib this instant.”

But the kid, pesky and disobedient as it is, only shifts its weight more onto him.

Sighing, Reginald bends down. He picks the baby up by its armpits in a calculatedly gentle but firm grip—he’ll have to make sure to train the child to return to its place by itself soon enough.

Number Five is already fast asleep in Reginald’s hold, eyes shut and limp as he is put back in his crib.

Reginald watches him for a few seconds more, as he lay unmoving and sprawled out, chest lifting with every breath.

He does not get why humans fawn over their off-spring as if they are a God-given blessing. They are tiring, clueless beings and definitely weren’t worth his effort, weren’t they extra-ordinary.

But maybe looking at the babies, sleeping in their cribs, he might be able to imagine—distantly and in a terribly abstract way of thinking.

They do look… _peaceful_. Innocent. Pure.

Not that that’s of any matter to him.

_Right?_

Right.


	2. the child, it cries--but who knows why

* * *

Number Seven has by far been the most difficult of the children.

In each of Reginald’s journal entries there is at least one remark on her temper and moodiness, combined with the uncontrollable, increasing force of her powers.

Only one and a half years old and she already has a mind of her own—a defiant, unreasonable mind at that.

She cries the most out of all children, every shriek a soundwave of destruction, and next to Number Five, who obviously has the advantage of being able to dis- and reappear out of thin air, she is the hardest to keep in one spot. Wherever her wobbling, uncoordinated legs can carry her, she heads for; often resulting in a fall and a red, scary grimace of pain.

Several nannies have quit their job over feeling as though they are in danger in the child’s presence, as she has made glass shatter and furniture fall over. Most of them came out with only a bruise and a scratch, if not completely unscathed, but lately Reginald fears that someday soon he won’t lose nannies over quit positions but rather… side-effects of a super-powered tantrum, to put it lightly.

He will be thinking of a solution to this, that is for sure. But good solutions take time and thought, as much as he wishes to immediately get rid of the inconvenience.

Which is why right now he has to deal with Number Seven’s squeaking wails coming from what must be the garden, right outside the window to Reginald’s office. At this time of day—late noon—it is quite normal for the women to take the infants outside for a short while, letting them practice their walking in the grass and enjoying the sunlight. Reginald himself finds it unnecessary, but allows it to have the toddlers out of the house for a while.

Getting up from his desk, the man marches over to take a look at what’s going on in the backyard. Number Seven’s nanny is holding her by the shoulders, desperately trying to calm the child down. The woman looks on the verge of tears—quite unprofessional in the workplace—as her attempts of comfort fail and the small girl trembles with screams and shudders.

Studying the nanny’s face, Reginald believes he can see traces of fear. Though Number Seven’s powers have not unleashed yet, this woman has had to witness them just yesterday; a small cut is still visible on her right cheek.

Does she fear for her life? Fear to be hurt by the child?

Reginald is unsure. He himself, after all, is much harder to harm or even kill than the weak, average human.

Their fear is foreign to him.

“The Russian girl is giving her caretaker quite a hard time, isn’t she? Number Seven, I mean.”

Pogo is standing by the jamb, a bunch of folders and documents kept in his arms which Reginald had asked him to fetch some time before. The ape tilts his head a bit.

“It appears so. But I’m afraid I have not come up with the right way to restrain her fits of anger. Not yet, of course. But I will. I don’t have patience for a child acting out over nothing.”, Hargreeves assesses, straightening his suit.

Pogo puts the papers on his working-table, keeping them stacked nicely. “Of course. But-…, well, I cannot know for sure, _but_ perhaps it is not _nothing_ , Sir. We cannot know what she is acting out over.”

Reginald frowns, resting one hand on the window-sill. “The other children are doing just fine. She is treated just the same—fed the same, dressed the same, taught the same. If the others can keep quiet, so can she.”

“Forgive me, Sir, but I don’t think it is wise putting them all in the same slot.”, Pogo says, fidgeting with his hands.

Reginald chuckles bitterly. “They are all the _literal_ same! They’re human children with superpowers, the exact same age down to seconds, Pogo. Why would they be different-“

The chimpanzee raises both of his hands defensively. “ _All_ children are different. Same species, same age, same household: they still end up with their own traits. You’ve observed them well, haven’t you, Sir? Clearly Number Seven has shown herself to be more sensitive to certain things…”

Reginald turns that thought over in his quick-paced brain.

Yes, the girl has proven to flinch quickly at loud noise or be disorientated by different sounds from different directions at the same time. The man has counted that as a sign of her powers—based on vibrations, based on notes and frequencies. Should that be taken in when considering how to treat her? Is it necessary to raise all the children with individual approaching?

Outside, the crying has quietened down. Still, Sir Hargreeves decides to check on how the nanny is faring.

* * *

As soon as he opens the gates to the garden, all women with their assigned children turn their heads. They greet him politely, monotonously; he dismisses them with a simple nod, going straight for Number Seven’s nanny.

She looks startled, awkward.

“Miss, if you’d come with me. Inside, _right now_.”

The woman stammers, fumbling with her skirt. “Yes, S-Sir. I am sorry if the child disrupted your work, I-… I swear I have her under control.”

Reginald raises a brow, glimpsing at said child, sitting in the grass with a prominent sulking expression. He chooses not to comment on it, instead waiting for them to head into the parlor while the nanny struggles to pick the child up.

Once Number Seven is gathered in her arms, she follows him swiftly.

* * *

“Now, would you care to tell me what caused you so much trouble keeping a toddler at a reasonable volume, Miss?”

They are standing right by the ajar door, a faint breeze coming from outside. The kid has been placed on a cushioned stool nearby.

The nanny stumbles over her words, not getting anything out. Several times she starts a sentence, just for it to die down on her tongue. Reginald has seen it over and over again in human behavior, and still he cannot grasp what is so hard about forming an acceptable phrase.

He adjusts his monocle, glinting with sunlight. “ _Talk_ , Miss.”

“It’s Miss Nicholson-“

He musters her with an unimpressed glare and she immediately withers at that, wincing over her own choice of words.

“I'm sorry, nevermind. About the child, well Sir, at first it was all fine. We went to let the children play- I mean- _train_ out on the lawn and Seven, she seemed very content.”

Reginald taps his foot, unwilling to wait for and deal with lengthy explanations.

“Right. _Right_ , the problem was a dog. From somewhere far, barking quite loudly in the distance. It scared her, I think? It must’ve caught her off guard, she… she immediately started screaming.”

“A _dog_?”, Reginald repeats, “You mean to tell me the child got scared of a dog? Without seeing it? Without knowing what it is, nor further possibly understanding the dangers of wild animals?”

The woman shrinks further under his gaze. “It is natural instinct, isn’t it? To be fearful of a big animal. To be fearful of the unknown, even.”

The words don’t quite come through to him. What would there be to be afraid of? It does not make sense. And natural instincts? Can they not overcome that?

“So, you mean to tell me the reason for your inability to properly care for the child is that an animal, _far away_ , made a sound? Is that your statement, Miss _Nicholson,_ or have I misunderstood, which I usually do _not_ do?”

The woman quivers, paling as her posture reverts to that of shyness or even shame. “I know how to look after a child, Sir. It’s my profession and I have quite some experience. From early on I was good with children, but this- this is not what I was expecting.”

“Then do adapt.” His tone is icy.

“I apologize, Sir. May I take Number Seven back to the garden now?”

Looking to the door, he sighs. “You know that I am a very busy man, I’m sure.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Then certainly you know my time is precious. You know not to waste it.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Her lips twitch.

“If I hear Number Seven cry once more today, I will take this as an obvious sign that you are an ill fit for this position, and therefore need to be replaced. Am I making myself clear?”

She nods, gulping.

* * *

It does not take long for him to be interrupted in his working again.

To be expected, really.

Same unbearably loud cries. Same red-faced, exhausted one-year-old. Same tired and confused nanny.

As Reginald steps foot into the backyard once more, Pogo trailing closely behind, the woman starts bawling—just like a clueless child—at the sight of him.

“I don’t know what it is, Sir! I am trying-, but she just- just-. _Agh_ , she cannot calm down!”

Number Seven’s screams pierce Reginald’s ears. Her face is resembling a tomato in shade, blood boiling beneath her cheeks. It really does not seem like she will change her mind about throwing a fit soon.

Reginald quirks up a brow looking at the nanny, a pathetic picture of a serious worker. She’s pulling at the sleeves of her blouse, gnawing at her red lips—makeup smudging across her teeth and cupid’s bow.

“What was it this time? What made her cry?”, the man demands to know.

“Car-horn.”, was all the woman replied.

As if jinxed, there is another honking noise from the street outside the mansion grounds. Immediately, Number Seven cries even more; clutching the grass beneath with her small, white-knuckled fists. Snot and tears all over her face, she pulls her mouth open wide for every scream.

Collectively, they wince in anticipation, knowing things aren't going well.

The sky darkens; Number Seven's powers break free.

Eyes turn white underneath their wetness.

Skin turns pale.

The other women step away, bracing themselves.

(And then another damned car-horn—)

Number Seven lashes out, her nanny thrown to the ground by the impact. Reginald stays standing, although violently hit by the force as well.

The workers gasp, varying from shock to terror.

Not the best turn of events, Hargreeves supposes.

* * *

The nanny ends up fine. Aching back and probably some nasty bruises, but Reginald would not consider her injured.

She, herself, is not convinced of that on the other hand. The moment she’s by her senses again, she storms out the Academy gates as fast as she can, cursing and hissing and stomping her feet.

“This is sick. This is _crazy_!”, she shouts out, wiping mascara off her cheeks. “I am going. And God knows I will _not_ return to this place. Never! Take care of your monster child yourself!”

Pogo mumbles words of sympathy and comfort, but her eyes are daggers when she looks back at them a final time.

And then she is gone.

It is not a great loss, Reginald thinks.

Once her footsteps and angry voice sounding from outside have vanished as well, he nods at Pogo, who takes notice as always. The ape knows to make sure somebody takes the nanny’s place by tomorrow.

What to do _now_ , is the question.

The other women are standing closely behind him, along with the rest of the—quite unbothered—toddlers. Some look disbelieving, some look used to it. Some seem glad to not have been assigned to take care of the seventh child. 

Apropos Number Seven.

Having immediately stopped her rage after the burst of energy, she is sitting on the lawn, boredly.

One of the nannies glances at her. “Sir, should we look after Seven now? I’m guessing the… _replacement_ will only arrive on the morrow?”

Reginald hums lowly, contemplating. He fumbles with the cane in his hand as he hesitates.

But then he makes a decision, one of the few moments in his life that he isn’t quite sure of himself, acting impulsively. _Intuition_ , humans might call it.

“No, thank you.”, he replies.

And quietly he adds: “I’ll be taking care of her myself.”

* * *

“Are you sure, Sir? I’d volunteer to look after her otherwise.”

Number Seven is placed on the rugged floor of Reginald’s study, finally out of his arms, chewing at her own fingers mindlessly. She does look very out of place between the antique furniture and loads of important research material, but the man will not go back and make up his mind now.

“I am sure, Pogo. I’ll be testing this out myself. If it’s true that Number Seven dislikes loud noise, then she should be more than alright in here.”

The chimpanzee grimaces. “But a child is not the best company when working, Sir. She’ll disturb you, want your attention.”

Reginald pulls his mouth in a thin, insincere smile. “I’ll make sure she knows not to get on my nerves. So you can go now, finish your duties. Come back when you’ve examined all the data I gave you, and take the phone call that’ll come at approximately three o’clock.”

Pogo nods grimly, remaining unconvinced as he glimpses at Number Seven on the floor a last time before he leaves.

When Reginald bends down the slightest towards her, her clear eyes meet his.

For some reason, the child giggles. He does not get why, but it’s a quiet and small thing, so he does not mind for now. Her smile does not fade when he walks over to his desk, pulling one of the cupboards open.

“Now, Number Seven, listen closely.”

She makes some weird babbling noise at him, which he takes as a confirmation of attention.

“I will give you this colored pencil” He holds up a nice shade of navy blue. “And I will give you a blank piece of paper. This will be your source of entertainment for the next hours, so use it wisely.”

As he puts it down in front of her, she claps once with delight.

 _Easy to please_ , he determines. _Good_.

Sitting down in a way the toddler is still in his line of sight, Reginald gets to work.

* * *

There is a knock on the door.

“We can look over the newest files now, Sir, if that works for you. I’ve also sent for Miss Hunter to come here in a few minutes, as it’s time for the young ones to be fed.”

“Very well, Pogo.”

The chimpanzee closes the door behind him.

“I see Number Seven has been on her best behavior.”

Reginald cannot deny it. The child is still on the floor, clumsily holding the pencil as she doodles all over the sheet. She appears quite content, only making small, muttered noises once in a while. Surprisingly easy to deal with, in this environment.

“I truly do not see what her nanny struggled with.” Reginald shakes his head slightly, disapproving of what happened prior at noon.

Pogo chuckles. “Number Seven thrives in a quiet, easy-going space, doesn’t she?” He eyes the child with warm eyes, as she laughs up at him.

Standing up from his seat, Reginald walks over to the young girl, crouching down next to her in an untypical manner, lacking elegance. He picks up her drawing.

“Nonsense so far, don’t you think?” The question is directed at no-one in particular, but Pogo takes it up as for him.

“I don’t believe so.”

He looks amused as Reginald faces him.

“Why?”

“Well, when I came in here it looked like she was imitating you, I’d say. Copying your writing. Maybe she’s on her way to be a businesswoman. Does that not look like an important document to you, Sir?”

Reginald resists the urge to roll his eyes, as humans do. Pogo has always had a weird sense of humor.

And Reginald has never had any sense of humor at all. It’s not too common where he’s from. And it’s not needed where he’s now, is it?

Looking at the drawing again, and then at Seven, he narrows his eyes.

The past hours had been successful, he’d say. Number Seven passed the test of keeping quiet and still. Maybe the reason to her misbehavior really is connected to exterior disturbances. Maybe she needs to be given the right environment to stay in control.

Reginald ponders over it.

Do the kids perhaps really need more individual treatment? Will that make them stronger, better? Should he maybe think a bit more of their personal needs? Is that a good approach to human children?

Quickly noting down in his journal to look into it a bit more, he stores Number Seven’s drawing in his cupboard.

It’s part of her progress after all, so he should keep it.

Just in case.

* * *

Shortly after, the child is carried out of the room by one of the nannies.

As they leave, Reginald believes to see the little being actually wave at him, stretching out her hand towards him.

For some reason he cannot explain, it makes his lips slip into a tiny, short-lived smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two!!  
> I feel like this one has weird pacing, but i hope you like it.
> 
> As always, feel free to comment, point out stuff, whatever... I'm happy about anything :)


	3. how interesting to give humanness to anything but oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffity fluff fluff.

The children are about to turn three.

Grace is moving around the kitchen, taking care of all seven of them while she also prepares a small afternoon snack and tea. She’s wearing a swing dress, one that reminds of the 1950s, which is a dark shade of green with white polka-dots and some black trimmings, as her blonde hair elegantly frames her face: the façade of a sweet, cheerful woman not once breaking as she works.

She looks very _human_ , Reginald observes. And most of the children have warmed up to her quite rapidly the past week, taking to the replacement of their nannies with ease.

He’s really done an outstanding job in programming and constructing Grace—the only inhuman thing to the android being her literal flawlessness. But the man even went out of his way to add the illusion of randomness to her calculated touches and moves, a slight hop and spin in every step as her nimble fingers glide around the counter.

Reginald wonders if she appears more human than him.

After all, he is sure if Pogo (another one of his _creations_ , one might say) weren’t physically to be marked as an ape, he’d fit in much better into the societal constructs humans have created than Sir Reginald himself does; Pogo understands emotions and he understands the irrational, abstract and illogical ideas of the human brain—or their “ _hearts_ ”, as they’d often say, although the actual heart is nothing but a hollow muscle: you cannot use it to think nor feel.

It is ironic, really, to be able to create something that imitates and follows human behavior so well, without being able to grasp it oneself.

The man pulls his attention back to his book, sitting on a stool right outside the kitchen, in an angle where he stays pretty hidden. He’s reading a professional guide on children’s psychology—his sixth piece of literature of that sort this year.

There’s a hope he’ll find answers in someone else’s writing.

For a while already, he’s been contemplating the necessity of spending ‘ _personal time’_ with the children outside of training, with no ulterior motives but to engage contact. It makes no sense to him as to why it should help the kids’ individual growth—but apparently it is one of the most basic things to do as an adult in a household with minors.

Thus, he might give it a shot, just to see.

In the background Reginald takes in the soft babbling and occasional giggles from the room, as well as the sounds of Grace opening the fridge, cutting up sandwiches and pouring orange juice into cups. He’s given her the ability to think of both health and practicality as well as toddler’s preferences when making food; so, he hopes it works out.

Judging by only sounds, the children do seem content. They all give Grace delighted thank-yous, as they’ve been taught to, and quietly converse between each other while they sip at their beverages.

All of them have been getting more talkative, he’s noticed, and according to what the nannies had been reporting (before he rid them of their positions) they are all quite advanced in their vocabulary and ahead in their development in most aspects.

Some are quieter than others; Two, Six and Seven in particular—while both Five and Three have proven to be most curious and observant. Number Three especially, with her powers of rumours, seems to naturally be drawn to speech and language: her favorite question of all being “Why?”.

To Reginald they are all still bad at talking—swallowing their vowels, ignoring grammar and using the most basic structures, _if_ they even manage to form a full sentence—but that is apparently also a part of growing up.

They are supposed to improve with age: humans take a _long_ time doing just that. Some say they never really stop, never really finish.

There is no point at which a human is done leaning for a greater version of themselves. Or perhaps not _greater_ —just _different_.

Looking up from his book-page Reginald sees Grace usher Number One from the kitchen entrance towards him.

“Here!”, the child says a bit hesitantly, but still with excitement, probably unaware of his overly loud voice.

In his hands, he’s holding a cup of tea, just as Reginald had ordered the android nanny to make. The woman beams as Number One staggers to the table beside him to carefully push the mug on top, managing to not spill any liquid.

When the tea is safely placed on the surface, the child grins at Reginald with pride and what seems to be a desire for approval. When the man nods at him, his cheeks flush.

“It’s chamomile, as you wished.”, Grace adds, gently pulling the toddler towards her again, who quickly grabs onto her flowy clothing. She bows down to him slightly: “Number One, can you say chamomile?”

The child tenses. “Ka- Kayno- Chaymommm…”

Reginald studies the two while Number One struggles on with the new word. Grace has patience; she encourages—it seems to do well with the child.

“It’s chamomile, jus’ as y’ wish’!”, Number One finally declares, repeating the words from earlier. The robot ruffles his hair and he giggles, flustered, shooting Reginald an expectative glance.

“Good job”, the man mumbles, and the child immediately buzzes with joy. “Thank you for bringing the cup, Number One.”

Grace smiles, baring her pearly teeth. “He was so afraid to touch any of the nice cups in the kitchen, so I thought I’d teach him that he can carry them just fine.”

The boy sneakily hides his face in the folds of her dress.

“His strength troubles him, Sir, so he thought he’d break the cup when picking it up. But isn’t it wonderful: he held it with little trouble!”

_Interesting._

As the nanny and the child walk back into the kitchen, Reginald makes a mental note to write that down in his observations on Number One.

_‘Trouble controlling strength. Fearful of breaking objects.’_

It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

* * *

It is a problem; he finds only one day later.

They are at the last bits of team training, which at this stage of their lives consists of barely anything. Pogo is standing in the back of the room, the children pacing around with boredom. Their task is to wait for him to clap his hands and react accordingly: in this case meaning for them to line up in order from One to Seven and grab each other’s hands.

It is an easy exercise to make sure they know how to respond when called and to give them a sense of place in their group—Reginald tells them to remember whose hands they’re holding, who stands by their side.

They do this repeatedly, trying to engrave the action into their memory.

It is during their sixth time that the mishap takes place.

Pogo claps his hands—the children shuffle together to assemble—they grab each other’s hands— _Number Two shrieks in pain._

Reginald stomps his cane to the ground as the chimpanzee assistant rushes to the child’s side. “What happened?”

Number One looks at him—eyes like round plates with horror like a ring around his pupil. He’s paled and reddened at the same time: a weird contrast between white cheeks and burning ears. When he takes a breath, it hitches.

Reginald repeats his question. “What _happened_?”

The child doesn’t answer. None of the children do: the only sound is murmured words from Pogo and yelps and whines from Number Two.

“Sir, I think Grace should take a look at Number Two’s hand. Arm and shoulder seem alright, I suppose. His brother either yanked too hard or squeezed to tightly, if I assess correctly.”, Pogo’s eyes switch between Reginald and a guilty-looking Number One.

 _“Hurts!”,_ Number Two cries out once again, as his siblings watch in fear and confusion, forming a circle around him.

Reginald cuts through them. “Pogo, I’ll be taking Number Two to the infirmary. Continue teaching the children, won’t you? I will return.”

The ape nods, carefully pushing the kids away from their aching brother.

* * *

The boy’s hand is slightly crushed, his palm swollen, but the damage is anything but grave. A minor wound, truly, bound to heal in a few days, without leaving a trace.

Grace showcases her skills of perfectly articulated comfort, taking care of the injury while keeping the child calm and still. Though Number Two is one of the children to barely ever utter a word, especially not to adults it seems, he adds a small, stammered “thanks” after every move the android makes, watching her with awe and glee.

It seems the woman is the perfect way to cheer him up and distract him, which Reginald is thankful for.

Lord knows he does not want to deal with having to tell a toddler superficial promises of “ _It’s going to be alright_ ”, “ _Good boy, you’ll do fine!_ ” and “ _See, it won’t hurt_.”

His patience has already been strained enough the past two and a half years; he decides to leave Grace to do her job.

* * *

As the man steps outside their infirmary, he is met with yet another child.

It is Number One, dwelling out in the hallway with his arms wrapped around himself and puffed cheeks like a hamster.

“Now why are you alone outside of your lesson?”, Reginald requires, chin held up high.

“Ran”, the boy answers quietly, looking at the floor, “Hurt Two.”

He still looks a tad bit terrified from the prior happenings, Reginald sees. The man contemplates what to say next. Is there even anything to say?

“Indeed, you did hurt Number Two.”

The child seems to grow smaller at the statement—which would be rather impossible giving his already rather tiny size.

“You hurt him, _but_ he’ll recover. Actually, he already feels well. Your brother will be just the same before you even know it. It’ll be forgotten by next week.”

That notion appears to provide at least a little bit of reassurance as the kid stares up at him, finally blinking away tears to reveal brighter eyes.

“Now let’s head back to your training, Number One. No slacking off over such an irrelevant incident. Number Two will rest in the meantime, but I’m sure he can come back in an hour or so.”

As Reginald heads for the classroom, thinking the confrontation is over and done, the child doesn’t follow him.

It seems they’re anything but finished.

Sighing, the man turns. “What now?” He really doesn’t have time for this.

Number One has a reluctant expression weighing on his features. His face scrunches up slightly. “ _Scary_ ”, he mumbles.

Reginald huffs annoyedly, shaking his head. “It’s simple exercises, Number One. I expect you to know that there’s no danger in that.”

The child’s lower lip begins wobbling, a strange kind of determination in his look.

“Scary!”

Scary? What in the world would there be to be afraid of?

Reginald narrows his eyes. He does not get what the issue is. “The classroom is not scary, young man. You will learn that with time if you cannot internalize it this immediate instance!”

As the man takes a step towards Number One, he takes a step back.

“Scary!”, the boy shouts once more, this time pointing at himself.

It finally clicks in Reginald’s mind.

…The trouble controlling his strength, the fearfulness of breaking what he touches…

He could’ve concluded that outcome sooner, he admits to himself.

So, trying to imitate his own robot-creation’s behavior, Sir Reginald crouches down on his knees. He puts his fancy cane to the side, abandoning it from his grip, as he extends a gloved hand.

This should work, shouldn’t it? This should signal kindness and comfort and warmth—

And that is what human children want and need, right?

It’s the necessary ingredient to defusing the situation.

“Come here, Number One.”, Reginald demands, failing to soften his tone nor loosening his ever-grim frown.

Still, the toddler comes closer.

“Let me…”, the man thoughtfully considers the words in his head, “Let me teach you this.”

He motions for the young boy to take his hands.

Unsure, Number One puts his palm in his; tiny, lumpy fingers inspecting the material of his gloves.

Reginald wraps his hand around the child’s, tenderly and slow for him to watch. He squeezes a bit.

“Push back.”, the man instructs, then adding, “ _Very_ gently. Try it out.”

Number One does so, poking out his tongue in concentration. His eyebrows furrow. Reginald can feel that he does indeed still use too much force; a pressing, tight sensation taking over the touch from one second to another; dialing from zero to a hundred far too quickly.

Had he normal, human bones, fragile and brittle, he’d be experiencing quite some pain, the man knows.

“Let go now.”, Reginald whispers, trying to keep a certain hum to his voice, as Grace does. Again, he squeezes Number One’s hand softly. “Keep it balanced, Number One. You have to put your mind to it, for now, to learn how to control it. Understand? Do it _slowly_ and _carefully_.”

At his second attempt, the boy succeeds. His grip feels just as normal as any.

When Reginald gives him a nod, an acknowledgement of a good job, the child laughs and shakes the hand—just as carefully, as not to hurt his arm.

Suddenly overtaken by a weird idea, Reginald does not get up yet, though the conversation is done. As he kneels there on the floor, facing the small child, he decides to try out one of those unique things humans do.

Leaning forward, it feels horribly unnatural to his body, as if pulling the strings into the wrong direction—against his coding and against his instincts.

Nevertheless, he wraps his arms around the child, awkwardly and without certainty as to how he’s supposed to do it, but he does it still: _he hugs him._

It only lasts but the blink of an eye, the boy gaping at him as he gets up again and grabs his cane.

“See? Nothing scary, Number One. Now, go finish training.”

The boy nods, grinning happily.

When they at last walk back to the classroom, the boy takes his hand. He holds it gently, like a once in a lifetime treasure.

The effort fills Reginald with something akin to pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I abandon my online hw to write this, staying up late? Hmmm perhaps, you'll never know.
> 
> I hope you like this, tell me if sth is off (pacing, phrasing...) For this fic I am also very open to requests on bonding time and character dynamics and anything :)
> 
> Have a nice week and I'll "see" you soon!
> 
> (I also decided to introduce Grace earlier than in canon. Heh. And eyy I do research for my fics and try getting injuries and children's behavior right, but if it still sucks--comment pls)


	4. perhaps i can watch over you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus and a nightmare.

Raising seven, small children under one roof is complicated.

It is not like Reginald expected the process to pass him by without difficulties—he is not that naïve, after all. Not that unknowing. But it turns out that a lot of the difficulties he has been experiencing are rooted in things he did not consider at the beginning.

They’re super-powered four-year-olds: that is bound to cause certain problems.

Reginald was and is prepared to deal with having to adjust individual and team training to be the most beneficial to all children; he is prepared to deal with outbursts of force and side-effects of their abilities. He’s ready to keep track of their improvements (and occasional failures) in his detailed journals and he is more than willing to establish and partially debunk theory after theory as to how their powers work and under which conditions and scenarios they are best used.

The man has no hard time getting through any of that.

He hadn’t expected however, how… _odd_ human children can be, and how unique their needs often turn out. They are all extra-ordinary in more ways than one.

—Seven children add up to lots of small things to keep in mind.

Through the past years that had been the greatest lesson for Reginald to learn. He would even go as far as admitting that this might be a bigger challenge to him than the actual preparations he’s been making for what might one day boil down to an Apocalypse.

Taking care of young human beings is demanding. Exhausting. Confusing.

And a baffling journey, through and through.

Even with the help of a highly-efficient android nanny (or actually ‘ _Mom’_ , as they have come to call her) and the support of a chimpanzee assistant.

Reginald’s brain is stuffed with details to remember: ...- _Seven_ needs quiet and dislikes certain, mushy textures of food (no oatmeal for her, it seems); ...- _Five_ needs all tags cut from his clothing and won’t wear anything too tight or scratchy, and he is also uncomfortable around too many people (as a very short trip to the park revealed once); ...- _Three_ is rather the opposite—afraid to be left alone and always in need of a hand to hold; ...- _Two_ needs his time forming words and understanding commands, he is obedient but also easily distracted and very attached to Grace (following her around like a duckling and crying for her when she is absent); ...- _Six_ has trouble being touched and seems to have developed a fear of the dark, often sneaking off into Four’s room at night; ...- _One_ struggles with controlling his fine motoric skills (and sometimes still is afraid of being too rough); ...- _Four_ is terrified of cramped spaces and often fails to concentrate as a result of a constant sensory intake from his powers (or well, _the ghosts_ ).

It is a lot to take into consideration, every day.

But he has found that the children are at their best when their needs are covered—and apparently quite often it is less about preferences, but actual human quirks of theirs that they cannot control nor ignore.

They do not actively choose to act out over incomprehensible desires—they just can’t help it.

And Reginald wants the children to be at their best. He needs them to thrive.

For the sake of the earth.

(And perhaps for their own, as well.)

Reginald does not always understand—but he does his best to accept.

* * *

There is someone out in the hallway.

Someone clumsily stomping their feet across the floor, waddling like a penguin by the rooms. Reginald can hear it clearly.

He is currently in his study, reviewing his records of last week’s team exercises. Straining his ears a bit further, he waits. The person outside must’ve come to a halt in front of the door, probably seeing light flood out from the slit under it. The shuffling of footsteps has stopped.

At this time of day (or rather, night) the children should not be outside their rooms. Shouldn’t be outside their beds, even.

He has strictly forbidden it and they know so.

But Reginald can tell it is not Pogo, and Grace is already down by her charging station. And it surely does not sound like a dangerous intruder either—except if there happen to be burglars who wobble around houses just like small kids.

“You can either come in or go back to sleep, but it has to be one of those options immediately”, the man grumbles, frowning from his desk. He does not consider himself the kind of man to tolerate being disrupted in his working.

The doorknob turns slowly—squeaking like a mouse as it does so—as Number Four reveals himself. Curly, disheveled hair hanging across bleary eyes. He has dragged a stuffed animal along, Reginald can see. A fluffy, bright-pink giraffe which he was granted as a Christmas present after being mesmerized seeing the animal in a book in one of their lessons.

“What is the matter, Number Four?”

The kid chews at the inside of his cheek. “Bad dream.” He appears flustered.

Reginald thinks. The child had mentioned something akin to nightmares before, but never to an extent where it bothered him enough to consult the man, especially not this late at night.

This dream must’ve unsettled him.

The species which Hargreeves belongs to, rooted in outer-space, does not dream. The only knowledge he has on it is from descriptions and passages in literature, which places his empathy for the young one at a low level.

But Reginald can also tell just by studying his face that it is bothering Number Four greatly, painting the man in something that could be called concern.

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

He tries to keep his tone as soft as possible.

“I stay with you?” The child rubs his eyes, hugging his toy-friend closer to his chest with one arm.

“Now do not be silly, you cannot rest in my office, Number Four.”

The boy pouts. “I’m scared.” He looks paler than normal, white as a sheet.

( _As if he had seen a ghost_ , some authors would write.)

The adult sighs, putting down the files he’d been examining. It does not look like he can convince the child to just leave. “I am willing to keep you company for a while. In your room, of course. Where you belong at this hour.”

Number Four considers that for a bit and then nods determinedly, hair bouncing with the movement. He patiently waits for Reginald to get up and leave the room and then trails closely behind him.

* * *

After Number Four has tugged himself in, together with his pink giraffe, Reginald seats himself next to his bed.

The boy is clearly close to nodding off any second, but seems hesitant to let himself fall asleep, jerking awake seconds after he drifts off every single time. He does not want to enclose on any details of his dream; only stating he got scared and none of his siblings were awake to comfort him.

Reginald is clueless on how to help, just hoping it is but a matter of time until the boy ceases to fight his own exhaustion.

“You don’t want t’ sleep?”, Number Four mumbles, head half buried in his pillow.

“I am not in need of as much sleep as you children are”, Reginald states, matter of fact. He leans back in his chair, posture still kept stiff.

“Why?”, the boy drawls.

“Simple rules of biology.”

“So ‘cause you’re old?”

Reginald’s lips twitch into a small smile at the bluntness of the comment. “I suppose so. And you are young, so you need to sleep now.”

The boy puffs his cheeks and wiggles around under his blanket until he’s in a more comfortable position.

A few minutes of silence and droopy eyelids pass by—leaving Reginald to believe he might finally be able to carry on with work—until Number Four speaks up again.

“Angry?”

The man raises an eyebrow, always demanding of the children to work on their wording.

“Are you angry?”, the boy asks shily.

“Whatever would I be angry about?”

“I’m up late.”

Reginald shakes his head, sighing. He wonders often enough what a glimpse into the children’s brains would reveal—their thinking is incredibly hard to get behind.

“I am not angry. But I would enjoy if you went to sleep as soon as possible.”

Number Four’s eyes trail off, gazing in a corner of the room with lacking focus. He lay agape at empty air. “Can’t sleep now.”

 _Probably a ghost,_ Reginald gathers, following his line of sight.

They’ve been trying to work out how to perhaps banish or mute them—having witnessed that in rare occasions the child has been able to make them visible with his powers—but so far, the progress has been stagnant.

The boy is terrified. Rightfully so, in a way, but it is very much unneeded for someone of his abilities to fear the spirits roaming around.

“Is there someone in the room, Number Four?”, Reginald inquires after a minute of the boy wordlessly staring, “Someone apart from us?”

Running one hand through the faux-fur of his stuffed animal, the child whispers: “ _Always_.”

His eyes take on a cold gleam.

Reginald has to think of the vow he once spoke. Back to the promise he made to himself to keep earth safe from the looming threat of the End of the World. Words ringing in his ears.

He does not see himself as a guardian. But he is determined to keep this planet alive and growing; keep it from the burning fate his home-planet was met with.

And protecting humanity includes these seven, small creatures, doesn't it?

The next words slip from his lips with a clinging taste of certainty.

“You’re safe here.”

Number Four looks up at him with deer-eyes, wide and curious, but also still scared. His mind abandons whatever had previously caught his attention.

“In this house, you children are protected. And I will teach you how to protect yourself and each other as well. Therefore, there is no need to be in fear.”

The boy smiles meekly. He appears to calm down, sinking into his sheets.

“ _Dad_?”

Reginald is not surprised to be called so—he is more surprised that it does not bother him at all. He hadn’t prohibited the children to address him as such, but had not encouraged it either.

“What is it, Four?”, he replies.

The boy rolls on his side, this time hiding his face fully between pillow, blanket and fluffy hair.

“Good night.”

Reginald chuckles, deciding to still stay in the room until the child’s breathing has evened out. Gently, he runs one hand through the boy’s curls.

“Sleep well.”

* * *

The next months he discovers that all the children have taken up on calling him their Dad. Though what he originally thought would be unfitting for him does not faze him by any means, it turns out.

That night, when Number Four came to him after his bad dream, was the first time it came up; but it surely did not end up being the last.

Now storing another one of Seven’s drawings in his office, one including crayon-versions of all ten members of the Academy—their household—his mind draws a new conclusion.

_He is a parent._

It wasn’t his plan at all, to become one. And never was it his desire.

But looking at it now, from a fresh perspective, he sees that he accepts the position. It benefits the children, he supposes.

_He is their father._

It makes him re-consider many of the plans he had originally had for the preparations he’d be taking for the Apocalypse. Makes him re-think some of the decisions he’s made.

When the children’s fifth birthday approaches, Reginald’s mind ponders with an idea.

…Perhaps they do need names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hereee another chapter. I hope you like it :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos and subscribing... it makes me really happy!  
> I'm generally a very awkward person but I try to reply most of the time... if I don't--know that I still appreciate you.
> 
> Up next: names, Ben and a small family trip


	5. if it calms you, we can do that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Not yet) Ben and The Odyssey.

Reginald Hargreeves observes from his window as the kids play out in the snow, each one giggly and delighted despite of runny noses and freezing air.

It is Saturday—part of the weekend, on which they normally have little to no training nor schooling—and they have mutually decided on spending their morning in the garden. The white wonder on the lawn is fresh and un-melting, having come from quite the storm last night, which had cleared up nicely in the early hours, and is apparently perfect for them to form misshapen balls that can soar through the air.

“ _Twooo_ , that’s unfair! You have your powers!”, Reginald hears Number Three whine, the girl having been struck right between her eyes.

“I can’t help it!” Her brother sticks out his tongue in response. “It’s instincts! You’ll just have to dodge.”

Instead, Number Three scoops up an amass of snow and yanks it at him like confetti. “I prefer firing back, dummy.”

Number Seven chirps in, looking quite strange and unproportioned in her huge, red coat and over-sized bonnet: “One’s the real enemy here! His throws are so hard!”

Number Four pouts. “And Five keeps zapping around. How are we supposed to hit him?”

That moment, Number Five, ever the smug one, tackles him from behind. They both fall head-first into the soft but cold ground, a fit of laughter bursting with it. Number Six decides to plop down with them, doing what Pogo has told Reginald is called a ‘snow-angel’.

Soon the rest also joins in; smiles and shrieks of glee coming from the bundle of six-year-olds playfully wrestling and rolling around in the yard.

Though other, small bickers occur, they happily go on with their playing for another hour or so.

It pleases the man to see that, for he often worries their different powers might cause greater disputes between them—but their bond seems to last strong through any momentary displeasures. They act like siblings through and through: or, well, they _are_ siblings. Adoptive ones.

Reginald has also gathered that during their free time, which they usually spend together, the children—especially One, Six and Seven—pay a lot of attention and make an effort to not accidentally unleash their powers as to not hurt the others. This serves to them as some kind of additional training and seems to work well as it happens without much pressure. The man has been able to witness gradually improving control from all seven kids.

His academy is turning out well, Reginald finds. And individually, as people, his kids are turning out great, too.

Not as if they were his experiments, of course. Not as in: he’s shaping and molding them to be great (for he now sees that his prior concept of doing so was inconsiderate and naïve of human nature). But never would he have expected the development of human children to be this fascinating.

They are all growing into their own identities and interests.

Number Seven has showcased prodigous skill in music—especially the violin, which she took to with fated ease—and is still glad to draw something for him, here and there, when she decides to wordlessly stay in his office for quiet time. Next to a whole stack of them in one of his cupboards, Reginald has also framed some of the latest works and hung them up around the hallways.

Number Six is an avid reader. He devours story after story, always strolling around the library and sometimes running to tug on Grace’s skirt or Reginald’s sleeve to ask for a novel from the upper shelves he cannot yet reach. Pogo has stated he’d seen the boy writing what seemed to be poetry on some crumbled sheets on one instance, but if that is true, he has made great effort to hide it so far. Reginald has decided to leave him the option to keep it private, though he finds himself drawn to the idea of one day reading it.

Number Five is, in ties with his powers, a mathematical genius. A miracle in logical, quick thinking; but also able to grasp space and time beyond basic laws and intuitive matters. Quantum physics books sprawled out on his carpet every day of the week, theories and calculations scribbled in his textbooks of all subjects. Reginald does not doubt he has found himself a brilliant brain capable of advanced scientific analyzations here. Whatever you do, the boy seems to be able to predict it all ten steps ahead.

Number Four is quite the opposite—he gets bored easily with pretty much any of the subjects Pogo lectures them on, although still succeeding in all and even being highly skilled in expressing himself in several language already. His strength, though, lies in empathy and reading people, as well as creatively processing his own thoughts. The boy overflows with energy at most times—dancing and skipping around in a free-style choreography based on his current feelings. There is an odd way in which he charms everyone surrounding him; but in the end, he does, which Reginald deems incredibly valuable to his own surprise.

Number Three is, next to the fact she always beams bright as a star and has shown great capability of making her siblings feel appreciated, a passionate fan of theatre. She loves watching movies, especially the old classics, and often snatches some of Grace’s jewelry and heels to reenact her favorite scenes. The young girl’s even taken to interpreting her own literary dramas and thinking up personal, amusing stories as well as speeches—dragging her siblings along to put up a minimalistic but thought-through play for the three adults in the house on special occasions of the year. Number Three is irresistibly persuasive—even without rumours, which they have taught her to not use without care—but rarely uses that with malicious, inconsiderate intention.

Number Two takes on the most to his athletic side. He is basically incapable of walking, always running from place to place whilst throwing stuff (and making sure he never hits and vases nor paintings). Spending time with his siblings, he nearly always urges to play a ball-game or tag. _But_ , and it baffles Reginald quite often to see so, he tends to be very calm and grounded next to his android mother-figure. The boy loves assisting her in preparing meals, or sipping hot cocoa on the side as she teaches him how to embroider or stitch up their regularly ripped uniforms. The scarfs the children are wearing for winter this year, he partially helped knitting; very much with dedication involved as he lovingly picked out special yarn and colors to represent his siblings. (Reginald was gifted a scarf, too; dark green and blue with violet and white speckled in.)

At last, Number One’s hobbies mostly include fine and careful control of the body, which is a challenge but also a wonderful, encouraging medium for him. He loves building miniature airplanes or rocket-ships, painting them quite realistically as a finishing touch, which decorate his room, and has recently also begun a project of aqua-scaping. It is an impressive sight, the small details he places in the imaginary underwater world. Reginald thinks they can place it in their main parlor when finished.

To summarize: the children really are full of wondrous surprises. And that even though they are only so young, still. Their sixth birthday was only three months ago.

Although, Reginald has to say, he looks back sometimes and sees the past years have flown him by with color and a whirlwind of soft smiles. They are growing up _fast_. A pace hard to keep up with, even for the quick-thinking alien he is.

Recently, the man has given Grace the task of picking out name-suggestions for the children until next week, which will be very exciting to them, he imagines. He would take part in it himself, but he has no knowledge nor imagination on what kind of names they could like; neither does reading up on meanings and connotations help him with the concept. For him, there isn’t much weight to what you are called by: he could care less if he stayed as Reginald or were suddenly to be called ‘Charles’ or ‘Anthony’ or ‘Bob’

(—though his latest change to be called ‘ _Dad’_ has actually come his liking over time.)

Shaken out of his thoughts by the mansion’s gates slamming closed, probably by the children coming in to change and seat themselves for noon’s meal, Reginald closes his journal and adjusts his slipping monocle.

From downstairs he can hear quick shuffling footsteps and hushed, ecstatic whispers, each getting quieter as their respective small owners head to their assigned rooms. His ears also observe what must be Pogo, walking up the stairs to come and remind him of attending lunch.

Reginald stands up from his desk. Still kept company by some memories on his minds, the corners of his mouth twitch up the slightest.

* * *

Someone’s knocking on Reginald’s door.

It is a timid sound, perhaps not even being picked up on by the average ear. Reginald quirks up a brow as he takes his eyes off of the files he’d been sorting through and lets them dart to the other side of his chamber.

“Come in.”

Number Six pushes the door open, face fixated on the floor as he keeps his hands clasped behind his back.

“… Can you get a book for me? Everyone else is busy.”

The boy is chewing at his bottom lip.

Reginald sighs. Technically his instinct would be to remind the child that he is busy as well, but with further consideration: it will not hurt to take a short break. Walking to the home-library does not to take too long, after all.

Thus, the man nods silently. Quick in movement, he stacks the files in one pile and leaves them neatly on his desk before the two of them leave.

“What has struck your interest this time?”, the man inquires as they then walk, the boy’s hand shily clasping the fabric of his suit.

He watches the kid flush. “Homer.” Fumbling with the word, he adds. “Odd- _odyssey_?”

Reginald hums. “Huh. Outstanding choice, Number Six.”

If the boy wasn’t flustered before, he surely is now, cheeks turning even redder. “Saw you read it once.”

The adult keeps his eyes from widening, though there is a small hitch in his rhythmic steps. “You did?”

The child does what looks like a mixture of grinning and cringing. “I did.”

Together, they open the library doors.

* * *

“I shall look for a translated version for you”, Reginald tells Number Six as they stroll by the high-reaching, antique bookshelves. Most of them are of expensive mahogany wood, rich in dark color as well as cool and pleasing to an examining hand.

The man navigates to the English section, a grand part of the library, then narrowing it down to the classics. Greek epic poetry. Author H, Title O.

There it is.

Carefully he pulls it out from above with a nimble motion and pats the cover gently to get rid of some dust.

“There you are”, Reginald declares as he hands the novel to the boy, “Homer’s Odyssey.”

For a moment Number Six gapes up at him with big eyes, shifting up and down on his tip-toes in what Reginald might interpret as nervousness or uncertainty.

He bites his lip again. “Can you …read it to me? Maybe?”

When the man does not immediately answer, he meekly adds. “Just the beginning, please.”

At first Reginald hesitates. He does not exactly _feel_ like doing it, nor see any reason as to why Number Six would want him to read it out loud when he could very well go through the novel by himself. But something in the back of his mind reminds him of keeping the children comfortable and furthering their sense of strength as a team. As a family.

So, he supposes he can read it out loud to him. He did do so with the original version for Pogo, to keep the then young, humanized chimp on track with human language.

Doing it for the mere joy of a child seems good enough as well.

“Where would you like me to read it to you?”, he asks.

Number Six presses his palms against his probably warm cheeks. “My room.”

* * *

They gather a soft, additional blanket for the boy and tea for the both of them. Reginald seats himself at the foot of Number Six’ bed, as the child tugs himself in, patiently waiting for him to start.

And then Reginald begins, leaning back and keeping his voice low.

He does try and do it similarly as to how he did it back in the 60s, when he was first confronted with taking care of his advanced ape’s development. Which means: pouring life into dialogue by changing the infliction of his voice and trying to put an emphasis on important parts.

_“…'Lo you now, how vainly mortal men do blame the gods! For of us they say comes evil, whereas they even of themselves, through the blindness of their own hearts, have sorrows beyond that which is ordained.”_

Ben listens attentively and with obvious interest. He seems to be clutching his stuffed animal tighter to his chest at some verses.

Reginald takes some sips of tea in the midst of the chapter, and then continues.

_“… There, all night through, wrapped in a fleece of wool, he meditated in his heart upon the journey that Athene had showed him.”_

And then Chapter One finds its end.

Reginald closes the book gently. “That would be it for a start.” He gets up from his chair.

The boy nods, whispering: “Thank you, Dad. I like it.”

The man reminds himself to smile. “You are welcome.” He walks over, putting the novel on the small bedside table next to alarm clock, lamp and a tiny labradorite crystal which the child had once been gifted by Pogo.

As he turns to walk out of the room, the boy clears his throat quietly.

“Uhm… thanks.”

Reginald furrows his brows, one of the sun’s rays striking his monocle through the window. “Yes, you have said so.”

“Yeah, but I mean…”, Number Six pulls a bit at his blanket, “ _We_ like it. _They_ like it, I think.”

The man waits for him to continue, a light silence hanging over them for quite a while.

“… I think they are calm when I’m calm. They like what I like.”, Number Six then says, hands on his stomach as a clear gesture. “I’ve just noticed it stops… _hurting_ , when Seven plays music or when Two and Four play cards with me. When I feel good. Then the tummy-ache disappears, much better and faster than when I stay in the infirmary or in bed.”

Reginald takes that in, mulling it over a bit. “Were you troubled before I read to you?”

A bit ashamed, the boy makes a noise of agreement. “But now it’s gone. Completely. Like they’re sleeping.”

Making a mental note, Reginald lays a hand on the door-jamb. “Well, if you have made that assessment for yourself, we can make sure to take that into account.”

Murmuring, he ends the conversation. “And if we find the time, I can read you some of the remaining chapters soon.”

“And maybe some of the others can listen, too?”, Number Six requests giddily.

“Sure, why not.”

Walking back to his room, Reginald thinks through his plans for the week. He could make more time for a reading-session tomorrow.

If the children would like that, he’ll find a way.

He’ll make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally another chapter!
> 
> I was fumbling a bit with this one, and also had lots of school stress.  
> But heyyy looking at this Ben-centric chapter and making excuses as to why I didn't update earlier: I wrote a One-Shot on Ben, if anyone's interested. :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope this is up to your standards and that you like it. I wish you a nice day and feel free to comment both random stuff and perhaps critique or suggestions!  
> <3


	6. the devil works hard, but allison works harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison. Doughnuts.
> 
> Alien Allergies.

The nine of them are out at a cozy restaurant named “Griddy’s”.

‘ _Them’_ being Reginald and Grace, as well as seven hyperactive children who are spending their first day with official names. Or well, all except for Number Five, who insisted on sticking with ‘Five’ out of a sheer unique sense of identity and aesthetics, which he refuses to explain to anyone. In the end none of them mind: he is free to stick with it for now and free to change it later, as he pleases.

The rest is over the moon, however. They make a show of adding each other’s names loudly at the beginning or end of each sentence, always addressing the other and refraining from referring to a sibling by pronouns, which then sounds something like this:

“ _Klaus, Diego_! Which doughnut do you think _Luther_ will choose? I, _Ben_ , think _Luther_ will take hazelnut because _Luther_ likes hazelnuts and _Luther_ likes chocolate glazing, which it also has, which is why _Luther_ will probably order hazelnut. It makes sense for _Luther_ and _Allison_ and _Vanya_ agree with me, although Five thinks _Luther_ might actually take the ones with strawberry filling. What do you think, _Klaus_ and _Diego_?”

It is amusing to observe, another quirk of human behavior that Reginald would not have expected. Though he does not exactly get what makes them so happy to be named and what difference it makes for them as individuals, he thinks he can understand certain patterns of the human mind.

They appreciate a sense of unity, but also need to know of their own selves as a single-standing force in the experience of existing on earth.

It is not easy for Reginald to comprehend and consider, he can admit, but he is getting the hang of it.

… More or less.

(In many cases, Pogo and Grace are a great help in reminding him to take some of the abstract emotions of the human race into account.)

“What are you taking, Dad?”, a sweetly smiling Allison questions as they all squeeze into the biggest booth the place has to offer (which still leaves all the children to sit shoulder by shoulder with Grace, divided onto two benches opposite from each other around a table, while Reginald has pulled himself a chair from an unoccupied spot.)

The man is not sure how to answer. He has noticed a string of disappointment in the children whenever Grace and him take them out to a meal without ordering for themselves. Though he does not know why, he tries to avoid that phenomenon.

The problem is that Grace simply cannot eat and that Reginald has a hard time finding dishes that are d’accord with his alien diet, next to the fact he needs a lot less sustenance than homo sapiens do.

At home, Grace is programmed to prepare him a plate that is safe to consume. Here, in a place known for doughnuts, waffles and milkshakes, he is of the expectation to not find anything he would consider remotely edible.

And even less to his tastes.

“I will have to keep thinking”, he finally replies, which seems to be enough of a response to the girl.

“Can we take some home?”, Klaus asks, wiggling around between Diego and Ben like an eager puppy, “For Pogo, too, maybe?”

Grace nods at the boy, running her fingertips along the smooth, cleaned surface of the table. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that, Klaus.” (The boy beams at the usage of his name.) “You kids can pick a flavor for him. But first, you’ll choose for yourselves, okay? And don’t go overboard, darlings. A treat does not mean you should get yourselves a nasty tummy-ache!”

Diego gives a quick, hummed reply, leaning into his mother’s arm.

The next moment, the children start talking over each other about dessert and training and the movie they had watched last night, creating quite some noise, as ever so often. Reginald thinks of reprimanding them and inflicting a minute or two of silence, but he supposes he can let it slide for the sake of shared excitement.

It’s a special day for them. Special days require special rules.

Reginald stares down at the menu in his hands. Now, what can he take? Definitely none of that greasy, tooth-rotting stuff. Milkshakes? Lord, no. And coffee is something he dreads to have entering his system.

A glass of water, on the other hand, will probably not seem sufficient to anyone around him.

Although Reginald’s brain works astoundingly fast, compared to the likes of the men his physical appearance is supposed to represent, the waitress arrives before he can settle on a final, sensible decision.

As the seven practically shout out their orders—causing the woman (Agnes, as her name-tag so helpfully provides) to giggle and whisper “ _cute kids_ ”—Reginald sighs. “Nothing for us two”, he tells her when the seven are done, gesturing at him and Grace.

Luckily for the man, the children seem too busy rambling on about whatever, to moan about his choice.

Not much later, the food arrives.

* * *

“Dad, do you think Pogo likes vanilla?”

They have reached the end of their trip, having paid the bill and left a generous tip. Allison keeps on tugging at his sleeve.

“Or should we have taken something else? Maybe something more adventurous?”

Reginald shakes his head, adjusting the fabric of his coat a bit as she lets go. “There is no need to overthink it. Pogo is not picky.”

The children gather in a line, One to Seven, as they’ve been taught. Grace checks that their jackets are closed properly and pulls at their scarfs. It is quite windy outside.

“B-but it’s not about him no-n-not liking it!”, Diego now chirps up, “It’s about… him enjoying it! Like, if he l-loves it!”

Grace boops the tip of his nose and grins at each of the kids. “Sweethearts, I think what matters most to Pogo is that you all thought of him.” She bows down a bit, to whisper to them, though still clear for Reginald’s fine ears to take up on. “I’m also pretty sure I’ve seen him enjoy some vanilla pudding, so I’m certain he’ll be delighted!”

The children giggle as the android _winks_ at them.

For a moment, Reginald is not sure whether he saw right. Whether it wasn’t just a matter of light and sudden movement tricking his eyes.

But no, he is convinced he actually saw her wink with a lop-sided smile.

It is not a problem, of course. He just didn’t think he’d made her capable of doing so through her software.

Well, what can he say? It does seem like everything around Reginald is prone to unpredictability. And though confusing at times, it is not to his complaint.

* * *

Pogo was, indeed, overjoyed about the dessert the children had chosen for him. He thanked each of them with one of his careful, quick embraces and could not repeat often enough how grateful he is.

For easy afternoon exercise the chimpanzee has suggested light-hearted games, such as tag as a start (without powers and an obligatory shout of name of whoever is tagged) and ‘capture the flag’.

Reginald is standing outside in the backyard watching the ape chase the delightedly shrieking children around the lawn with outstretched limbs. When he catches one, he doesn’t only tap them on the shoulder, but lifts them up and twirls them around in the air while they full-heartedly laugh and shout.

They all appear to be enjoying themselves.

Deciding to leave them to their fun, Reginald barricades himself in his study, as ever so often; this time skimming through footage of last week’s training to review some of the physical and perhaps also strategical flaws he can still correct within the children.

What definitely works best between them all is a strong sense of teamwork and protectiveness over each other—which goes beyond emotions, but to the extent where they very naturally cover each other’s blind spots and jump to anyone’s help.

It is definitely a part of his Academy that they can all be proud of, Reginald declares. They work together. They ensure each other’s safety.

They’re teammates and siblings. And he is their leader and teacher, but also their father.

It works better than one might expect. Though there is still a long way to go until they are ready for real missions. (Small human children aren’t supposed to battle anyway, Reginald has gathered.)

As the man exits his office some time later, to go for one of his bi-weekly checks on Grace’s hardware, he nearly walks right into Number Three.

_Allison._

She yelps at their near collision, immediately stumbling back. “I’m sorry. I was about to knock.”

Knocking to disturb his work is a very frequent occurrence at the Hargreeves household, it seems. Reginald supposes he’s learnt to accept that, though sometimes enervating to the core.

“What is it you need?”, he huffs, trying to avert his own impatience from bleeding into his voice.

The girl shifts a bit on her feet, her skirt whirling around with the movement. She is very clearly holding something behind her back.

“Pogo allowed me to leave the garden for a special surprise!”, she then announces.

Reginald observes as she squeezes her eyes shut and chews at her lip, then pulling the yet to be identified object from behind her and revealing it to him.

_A doughnut._

Allison is holding a doughnut. Offering him a doughnut.

As the girl blinks and squints up at him, her cheeks flush furiously. “Please take it”, she mumbles, with strands of curly, dark hair fluffing in front of her eyes. She blows some of them away from the corner of her mouth.

Gently, as if accepting an award, which he has several times now, Reginald takes the food between his hands, keeping his features from crinkling and morphing with evident disgust. The doughnut’s greasy and a bit smushed, and practically reeks of cinnamon.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”, the man blurts out, a strict frown glimmering beneath his monocle.

Allison holds her breath for a second. “Eat it”, she suggests, or perhaps even demands, “It has apple-filling or something. You like fruits, so I thought…”

The last bits of the sentence remain unintelligible.

Reginald lifts his hand up and down, flicking his wrist a bit as if to weigh the dessert in his palm. He is very convinced alone by the scents he can pick up that this is going to mess with his well-being, even if only temporarily.

Throwing a glance back at his desk, he nods at the child. “I thank you, Allison. This will serve me as a nice snack. If you excuse me-“

“Aren’t you going to eat it now?”

Reginald feels his own jaw tense. It seems that waiting for the girl to leave and then… _disposing_ of the health-hazard is not an option. Her eyes tell him very clearly that he ought to eat that damned piece of junk-food right in front of her.

And Allison has, from the get-go, been one of the children to try and always have things her way. Though Reginald, of course, does not tolerate senseless stubbornness, he does encourage determination. And this child has a lot of that.

A clear goal in front of her this exact moment: watch the man eat the doughnut he’d been gifted.

“Let me have some tea with this”, Reginald presses out, helplessly.

He might even pray to a deity he does not worship that a bit of Earl Grey will rid him of any discomfort throughout the procedure.

* * *

Grace has a distinctive twinkle to her gaze as they enter the kitchen.

The kettle is already being heated, as if she had foreseen the situation. Reginald is very sure that all of the other members of the Academy had been in on the little, self-inflicted task of Allison’s. It almost makes him consider it a threat to his authority, but who is he to feel fear at receiving a sneakily planned out present.

“Here is your tea, Sir”, Grace hums as she sets the cup in front of him. As always, it is of an already enjoyable nature, not scorching hot and far from revoltingly cold.

Allison has seated herself right next to the man, legs swinging back and forth under the table. Her eyes are wide as she takes in his every move.

Right, then. Eat the doughnut. Sounds easy, huh? Take a few bites and its gone and forgotten, over and away.

Not a complicated matter at all.

Except Reginald dreads the slight effects it could have on his extraterrestrial physique. Dreads letting the dough and filling come anywhere near his mouth. But it is going to be bearable, in any case, he tells himself.

Only minor discomfort.

And so, he takes a bite. _Allison’s face lights up_. He chews. _Allison smiles from ear to ear_. He forces it down his throat. _Allison laughs_.

“You like it!”, she gasps and hops up and down in her chair. Reginald has no clue as to how she has made such an incorrect observation.

Still, he nods. “I suppose I am… _happy_ about your gift…”

If she sees his cringe, she does not bother interpreting it as any reaction opposing his words.

Eagerly, the girl stays to watch him struggle down the rest of the doughnut. She is quite jolly about it.

“I _knew_ you’d like it! You should find out what your favorites are, though. By trying them out at the restaurant”, she tilts her head, “Mine is cherry-chocolate.”

Unnecessary information, but Reginald still files it into his memory.

“I appreciate your efforts”, he mumbles, feeling his numbing tongue go a bit limp. “You should now rejoin your siblings and Pogo. I have a lot to do and would like to continue on my own, as you should already know.”

Allison bares her pearly teeth and jumps on her feet obediently. Her long hair flops up momentarily with the motion and there is the small noise of the necklace, which Grace had gifted her for their most recent birthday, moving around under her blouse.

As she walks, she holds onto Reginald’s sleeve again.

* * *

They are already halfway into the parlor when the first signs of what resembles a heavy migraine kick in. Reginald reaches for his temples, sighing. _Damned humans and their poisonous food._

His knees buckle a bit, causing him to fall behind in their pace.

Beside him the girl stops abruptly. “Are you sick?”, she asks with narrowed eyes, inspecting him.

“I do not get sick”, Reginald counters with a barely visible shake of head. He is not exactly lying—when it comes to common colds or other regularly reported human sufferings, he is pretty much immune.

Allison, nevertheless, is not convinced by this.

“Was the doughnut bad?”, she inquires shily, a quivering tone in her normally booming, confident speech.

“No”, Reginald insists, pinching the bridge of his nose as an awkward warmth sprouts beneath his forehead. “I might be tired. If you let me work in peace, I’ll be fine.” Hurriedly, he adds: “But I was glad to have taken a break just now.”

The girl, for an eternal second, just stares up at him. Then she steps a bit forward, so that she is directly facing him with her whole body turned.

Reginald, perhaps as a side-effect of the food, can feel himself freeze up involuntarily. His breath hitches as he hears a set of familiar words.

“ _I heard a rumour_ …”, Allison starts, clenching her fists. The man anticipates her powers.

She audibly gulps, parched mouth reaching for her voice.

“I heard a rumour you were feeling completely healthy and good.”

Reginald braces for his senses to cloud. For his consciousness to fade into the background shortly. For a fake but perfectly working reality to take over.

What happens though, is that his headache does not subside, nor do his eyes fog over.

And Reginald has seen the power of the rumours on other people—he knows how it carries through.

However, he had never been subjected to the sensation himself. On second thought, he is not surprised that the powers do not work on his alien self.

Allison does not know that though. She looks at him with a hopeful but also worried expression, since in general it had been established for her to not use the powers without permission within the family.

Reginald decides to put his hand on her shoulder, softly and comfortingly. Somehow the sheer idea of her having gone out of her way to erase his problems makes him feel… somewhat _proud_ , one could say.

“I feel fine, Allison. You can go be with your siblings now”, he says to her calmly, schooling his expression to remain neutral.

The girl giggles with relief. “Alright! Have fun with your boooring work. But finish before dinner!”

Before Reginald can reply, she has run down the hallway and disappeared out into the yard to join the rest.

Smiling and gritting his teeth at the same time, the man then wanders to where he can hear Grace quietly sing a tune to herself. She stops as she sees him.

“Would you prepare me one of my designated remedies for migraines?”, he rasps, sinking into a sofa nearby.

Grace, as expected, agrees to do so. “Bad food choice?”, she also asks. Something about her infliction almost makes her sound as if she’s poking fun at him, but her face remains caring and gleeful.

“For a good cause”, Reginald retorts, holding his head.

The android eyes him knowingly before she heads out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise. I am not really satisfied with this but publishing it anyway because I'm smart like that.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all the sweet comments so far!  
> Have a nice day and wish me luck with my exams lol
> 
> Coming up: Diego's chapter, Five's chapter :)  
> If there's anything you guys would like to see in this fic, feel free to write some suggestions.


	7. the strange workings of the fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number Five and a day at the museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Finally updating?  
> What can I say, writer's block and exam season are b*tches. 
> 
> I hope this is enjoyable though.

Number Five is a strange child.

Never in one place, never in one moment. And seemingly impossible to follow behind.

And what a peculiar thought that is: oftentimes Sir Reginald finds himself bewildered by the thing which is human behavior, even more so the behavior of a human _child_ of all things. For a long period the man was troubled to get behind the patterns, quirks and intricacies of his adopted band of superpowered young beings, next to the challenges of his ceaseless building and improving of the Umbrella Academy.

Children’s view of the world is terrifyingly hard to picture from the standpoint of an extraterrestrial adult: that has been Hargreeves’ conclusion over the years. They lack logic, they lack common sense—they pander to _emotion_ , of all things.

But with Five the problem seems to be of opposite nature than with the rest of the seven. He does not behave childlike, one could say. His sight on things cannot be led back to the thinking of a young brain.

Being the least predictable in his development and temper, Reginald’s journal is filled with theories on the odds of Number Five’s mind. Whilst the ever so typically human development of the other children once caused the eccentric man restless nights in his study, it is now the, in some way, abnormal growth of Five’s character which bothers him.

The child is not pleased by the things which please the other children. He does not talk nor think the way the others do. And his interactions with anyone in the Hargreeves household do not hold any resemblance to the interactions brought by his siblings.

Reginald cannot by any means comprehend why.

The situation paints itself like a humor-devoid joke: according to Pogo, Number Five might even be the only one of the children to pass as the legitimate offspring of Reginald, in terms of behavior. Grace will also smile distantly, eyes clear and observing, and say: “Now aren’t you two alike?”

_Alike?_

They might be.

They might be, starting with Number Five’s lack in interest for a normal name nor any of those formalities. They might be, continuing with their love for science and always accomplishing the next and greater goal. They might be, ending on their disregard for anything beyond pragmatic matter.

Still, Five is the child Sir Reginald feels he cannot, analytically and calculatingly, understand.

It seems there is nothing to still the child’s racing thoughts, nothing to satisfy his craving brain. He is always ahead and ahead and ahead in all steps, but then again, never in the present with his siblings.

Birthday gifts and board games pass him by without much visible enjoyment. All conversations pace too slowly for his liking, too shallowly to his complaint. Never has Number Five seemed excited at the news of a trip or a fun activity.

There are things he likes, that is obvious. There are things he finds pleasure in doing and things that amuse him. But happy—with deep-bellied laughter, flushed cheeks and light-holding eyes—he does not seem to be.

And so, they might bear similarities, Reginald admits. But that is what makes things anything but simple. Because Five is human, like all of his brothers and sisters. He is from earth and he should be concerned with earthly matters.

Still, it seems as though no worldly thing can ground the boy.

So yes, Number Five is a strange child.

(And yet, he is only a child.)

* * *

Grace has made the suggestion of visiting a local museum.

Most of the children, especially Ben and Vanya, are infatuated with the idea already and have been ever since the first word concerning it was muttered.

Reginald is not particularly offended by the concept, either. He believes it to be beneficial to their education; as seven-year-olds they should be more than ready to be confronted with historical artifacts as well as art of all kinds. According to a pamphlet, there will also be a children’s exhibition on the solar system.

It sounds like a good field trip for the Academy.

( _And perhaps a nice family outing as well_.)

As Reginald finally gives an official announcement over dinner—with a planned date for the visit as well as assigning the children easy written tasks to do during the hours they’ll spend there, to assure they memorize important facts—he studies Number Five’s face the most, looking to find delight or maybe even the opposite: annoyance.

But he finds nothing. No reaction to the news, no grinning over a day at the museum. Only something that could be called nonchalance. Boredom, even. Or just a neutrally kept face.

He watches as Diego nudges the boy, whispering something with widened, excited eyes. Number Five only smiles and nods in response to whatever he was told. He does appear content, but in no way infected by the bubbling joy that traces his siblings’ faces.

It puzzles Reginald further. He must observe the child more.

There must be something inside the museum to spark Number Five’s interest. Something to brighten his colorless face; to strengthen motivation and passion.

 _Something_ that makes Number Five happy.

* * *

The solar system is by far what fascinates the kids the most.

They stand in awe at pictures and glowing, round sculptures which are huge compared to the seven children’s still growing human bodies but tiny next to the seven planets they are meant to portray next to Sun and Earth.

Stumbling between admiring _ah’s_ and _oh’s_ the group spends an eternity there.

Reginald, on the other hand, makes his way through the dimly lit rooms with little attention to what is around him. There is nothing displayed which could broaden his knowledge, so he keeps his eyes on the young ones instead, which trail behind Grace in a line, similarly to ducklings following their mother.

He does have to chuckle at a cardboard cut-out placed by the exhibition’s exit of what the museum has titled a “ _Martian_ ”. Green-skinned with over-sized black eyes, lacking any traces of cornea and iris. A mouth pulled into a weird grimace beneath two slim slits that must be remnants of a nose. One hand hidden behind the back of its boney silhouette, the other held up, showing only three, long fingers—almost looking like talons.

What a weird depiction of an alien. Far off, and this not just because of the simple, dimensionless art-style.

Reginald has seen several outer-space species next to his own. None of them look this… _silly_ , to say the least. But he does suppose complaining to an employee is in vain.

He _will_ make sure to teach his children to not associate the caricature with real extraterrestrial life though. It would be respectless to his ancestors to not do so, after all.

At last, stepping out of the dark exhibition, Reginald keeps his eyes on Five. The boy is gnawing at the inside of his left cheek, hands in the pockets of his outdoor-uniform’s pants (which is a simplified version of their normal blue blazers with the embroidered crest, as not to raise any attention in public and make anyone aware of the Umbrella Academy before their first official outing, which has yet to occur.) His walk is casual, strolling by as he follows his siblings.

Reginald thought the solar system would be Five’s favorite part of the museum, but he seems just as uninterested in it as in the rest.

As Grace asks the children if they all had fun, he only raises an eyebrow and nods, drowned out by the eager responses of the others. He does not choose a souvenir to take home from the museum’s small shop, either.

And so, the quest to find out about the key to Number Five’s mysterious mind continues on without success.

The next moment, as they stand by the gates to depart, a bright flash goes off behind them, followed by the squeaking of shoe-soles on the floor. Reginald turns to the source of noise, narrowing his eyes at a young, wild-eyed man holding a fairly big camera. Some of the other visitors around them stop, gawking.

“Cameras are not allowed.” Reginald grits his teeth, tensing his jaw.

The stranger, looking disheveled and smelling of tobacco, takes another picture, as the children cover their faces in confusion, stepping back as Grace shields them and ushers them away.

“No photos inside the galleries”, the man murmurs, “But nothing ‘gainst photographing a famous billionaire. This will look good in my next article.”

A greedy journalist, it seems. Sir Reginald knows those, though it has been quite some time since he last encountered one.

Adjusting his monocle, Hargreeves sighs. “I am asking you to leave this instance. I am not here to have you cause a scene and take photographs without my permission!” He can feel his patience wearing thin within seconds as the stranger does not even lower his camera the slightest.

“Are these the children everyone’s been whispering about?”, he inquires as he licks his lips, “And a pretty, blonde wife, even. Now that makes quite a story, Mr Hargreeves!”

The passersby around them are crowding, forming a group much larger than Reginald could have ever expected in such a place. To his great displeasure there also seem to be some more people who unrightfully feel they are allowed to photograph and interview him out of the blue.

The rumbling of footsteps and flashing of lights resembles a thunderstorm.

“I am reminding you fools that in no way am I consenting for you to invade my personal space”, Reginald huffs, his strict eyes scanning through the abundance of tactless humans which have gathered around them. “I will be leaving and have no intentions to feed any information to your hungry mouths and prying, cash-grabbing hands. Write whatever articles and reports you want to—but what you will not be getting is interviews from me. And I advise you not to publish any of those photographs you have just taken: I do very much know how to contact my lawyers and step into action.”

This seems to silence at least a small bout of the people as Reginald turns to leave with Grace and the seven, who are watching him with nervous faces and twitching lips. Still, as they exit, scrambling and loudly clacking heels or stomping soles follow them, paired with scarce bright flashes of light still going off, even with their backs turned.

“Are these the miracle children?”, a woman yells from behind.

A high-pitched voice chirps up right after. “Sweetheart, tell us your name!” The person grabs onto Five’s sleeve, whose face bursts into a horrified expression immediately.

The man from before takes another photograph. “Say cheese!”, he croons, trying to apply to the children, which frown at him with varying degrees of fear.

“Let the boy go”, Reginald barks at the one who is still holding onto Five, who is twisting and trying to escape from her hold.

Grace keeps on leading them away. “Children, keep on walking. We need to get to the car and be home for dinner, darlings.” Her calm aura does not break as the people bump into her and shout.

“Lady, don’t you wanna tell us about your kids?”

“Is it true they’re all… _special_?”

“Is this a new project of yours, Sir, or have you been settling down?”

Five’s blazer is still being clasped. “Let go!”, he whines in a manner completely unlike him, with his face scrunched up unrecognizably.

There are just a few steps left until they can all squeeze into the car and drive home safely. Just a few steps more of this hell.

Vanya yelps as she nearly stumbles to her feet, thankfully held up by Klaus. Allison appears close to spitting a rumour to help them, but knows to not use her powers in public. The rest keeps their eyes on the ground.

Meanwhile Five is still wrestling around with the stranger. As Reginald maneuvers to him, he tries to yank the person’s hand away, off from the grabbed fabric. The boy has paled and is breathing in irregular, hitched gasps.

As the stranger finally lets go of his blazer, a sudden surge of blue bursts through the air. The smell of static and ozone breaks out with a familiar swooshing sound, which Sir Reginald has heard over and over in training.

The sound of a spatial jump.

Five has blinked away.

Everyone looks around frantically, the siblings with concern and the crowd with unblinking, unbelieving eyes at the disappearance of the boy.

This _not_ good.

As his lips press into a thin line, Reginald takes a deep breath, continuing to ignore any of the questions the people throw at him, which are now growing even louder and more hysterical.

He turns to Grace. “Take the six home and then drive back here”, he whispers to her, “I’ll look for Five.”

The android woman nods without hesitation, taking the children away as Reginald rushes in the opposite direction, hoping to shake the crowd off soon enough.

The academy is too far away for Five to have jumped there, so he must still be around the museum grounds.

* * *

It takes Reginald quite some time to find the boy.

As he hurries through the museum halls again, calling out for Five, he is watched by others with faces as though he is from another planet. (Which he is, but that is beside the point.)

Only after twenty minutes or so, a worker approaches him.

“Sir, you are the guardian of those children in the… _uniforms_ , right?”, the elderly woman asks, tugging at a strand of her bright-red, brittle hair. Her other hand runs along the fabric of her skirt, polished nails making a weird scraping sound.

“Yes. I’m afraid one has gone astray, have you seen him?”

She nods, eyebrows raised as her forehead creases. “We don’t know how he got there, but my co-worker just found him sitting around in one of the closed off parts of this place. The room is empty right now, because we’re waiting for some artworks to be delivered for next week, so we keep the doors locked. I have no idea how he got in there—he was lucky somebody randomly checked!”

Reginald does not reply, not even attempting to make an effort of neither explaining nor apologizing for the inconvenience. He follows the lady wordlessly as she leads him to his son.

As described, they arrive to Five cowering in the corner of a completely empty room. In itself the space is grand, which is even more emphasized by white walls and floors. The only source of light is from a few overhead windows, which let the cloudy afternoon rays flood in.

The worker leaves the man to take care of the situation alone, instructing him to notify someone from the staff to lock the room off again once they leave.

“Five.”

Silence.

“Get up.”

The boy does not appear responsive. He has his head buried beneath his pulled-up knees, shoulders hunched and shaking slightly as something close to a whimper escapes him. As Reginald steps closer the child presses a bit closer to the wall behind him.

“Five, the people are gone. You’re safe.”

The boy mumbles something into the fabric of his outfit.

Reginald pinches the bridge of his nose. “Speak up, please.”

Five lifts his head, eyes misty and reddened against his ashen skin. His chapped lips are bleeding in one corner, probably due to nervous biting of the area.

“I want quiet”, Five frowns, taking a deep breath as his eyes dart across the room.

“It is quiet”, Reginald counters, “And it will be quiet at the Academy, too. I promise.”

Five shrinks in on himself, pulling at one earlobe and fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “That was awful”, he mutters. It does not look as though he is planning to get up.

Reginald walks over to him, sitting down on the floor, too, with his back against the cool wall.

“I thought you might enjoy today, but I suppose I was wrong” The man puts a gentle hand on Five’s shoulder, pulling away a moment after as the boy flinches at the touch.

He does then look back at him though, with clearer eyes. “The museum was nice.”

Reginald raises an eyebrow. “It was?” It hadn’t appeared so.

Five nods and gives a hummed reply, now letting both of his hands rest alongside his thighs. “I liked the bit on the Byzantine Empire. And all those different versions of self-portraits? From Dürer to Van Gogh to Kahlo… just _fascinating_.”

Fascinating?

If Five notices Reginald holding his breath that moment, he does not comment on it.

“And that presentation of the solar system was pretty cool. I think Luther fell in love with space—he wouldn’t stop rambling, that dummy.”

Reginald has to laugh at that, quietly, under his breath.

“So, you did like the trip?”

The young boy tilts his head, looking back at the man. “Yes. Just not those bad people at the end. The rest was fun. And calm.”

Reginald closes his eyes in thought. “You like calm…” When he lifts his eyelids again, Five is getting up on his feet, swatting dust from his pants. “To me it looked as though you weren’t happy being out here.”

Five’s face bears an unreadable expression for a second, before he schools it back to his normal looks. “I am happy”, he says, almost timidly.

“You’re never as eager as you siblings.”, the adult points out.

The boy only shrugs. “I’m still happy. I like anything when I do it with the others.”

It finally clicks in Reginald’s mind. Number Five just does not express his joy as openly as the others do. But he is happy. Especially happy to be with his family.

It does make sense, in hindsight.

“I’m ready to go”, Five tells him, grabbing a handful of fabric of the sleeve of Reginald’s coat as the man stands up.

“Grace should be ready to pick us up outside.” Together, they leave that empty room.

* * *

As he gets into the backseat of the car, Five smiles up at Reginald. Soft and faint, but deeply.

He looks content.

He _is_ content.

Number Five is a strange child—but as long as he is happy, that is no problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy over kudos and comments and feedback and I hope this isn't horrible :)  
> Thank you to everyone who has been giving love to this fic!!!
> 
> Happy new year everybody: time is a construct! <3


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